


mortal eyes cannot distinguish the saint from the heretic

by pontifexcitrina



Series: acoc short stories [3]
Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, but if you look at it like he's repressed he's sooooo interesting, listen i know this carrot has 19 lines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:14:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26022505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pontifexcitrina/pseuds/pontifexcitrina
Summary: Belizabeth sends the young Keradin Deeproot to run down the soon-to-be Saint Citrina.
Series: acoc short stories [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1888750
Kudos: 6





	mortal eyes cannot distinguish the saint from the heretic

Belizabeth sends the young Keradin Deeproot to run down the soon-to-be Saint Citrina.

He does not move as she circles him but flinches as she lays her hand on his shoulder and leans down to whisper in his ear.

“It is the will of the Bulb. May it guide your hand.”

Keradin does not carry a mace then.

The broadsword he carries has no name.

Belizabeth tells him such vanity is for heretics.

Many whisper about Belizabeth and her devotion, about her connection with the Princess of House Rocks.

By his hand, the whispers shall die today.

He rides alone.

Citrina walks alone on the Pilgrim’s Road, just outside Greenhold.

He feels the Bulb at his back as he leads his horse into a gallop. As he draws closer, she turns around.

The light of the Bulb illuminates her terrified face as she turns to run.

She is not fast enough.

She would not ever be fast enough.

Her body is trampled underneath the horse’s hooves.

He watches her reach for the book that was flung from her, it glows as Keradin kicks it away from her.

“Confess, witch.” Keradin watches as she struggles to speak, lemon yellow blood staining her lips as she sputters.

“Your will is yours, Sir Keradin. You are a vessel, not a tool.”

When he returns to the Cathedral, the bells are ringing.

He kneels again and Belizabeth circles him.

Wrapped in his cape, the Book of Leaves glows faintly, illuminating the blood staining it.

The scent of it perfumes the air, sickeningly sweet.

Belizabeth unwraps the book from the cape and lays his hand on it.

“Is it done?” She asks.

The weight of the world is in her pale green eyes and he fights the urge to move out from under her gaze.

He feels invisible grain dig into his knees, under his armor, and into his flesh.

His blood spilling out onto the floor.

He does not shift.

_He has sinned._

_He has sinned and must pay penance._

_This is the price of sin._

Belizabeth presses his hand more firmly into the book and Keradin feels the heavy, uncomfortable weight of his armor dig into his shoulders.

He sees Citrina’s hand inches from the book, still grasping for divinity even in death.

The light intensifies, bites at him beneath his gloves.

He lifts his head to look at her.

“It is done.” After the church bells have been rung and the heretic’s body has been recovered, Belizabeth hands him a mace wrapped in cloth.

“The Bulb will shine brightly upon you today and all days, Sir Keradin.”

The mace is unwieldy in his hand, unbalanced.

It will be hard to fight with.

But it is a promise. Keradin can be an instrument, however unwieldy.

Whatever guilt that plagues his thoughts can be erased from memory.

Mace of the Faith is a title that is only given to the most devout soldiers of the Bulb.

“My sword and my will for the Bulb,” Keradin says.


End file.
